


that means we're inconsolable

by fisherqueens



Category: Dead Space
Genre: Asylums, Blood, Gen, Mental Health Issues, Mental Institutions, Self Harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-09
Updated: 2013-09-09
Packaged: 2017-12-26 01:37:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,095
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/960055
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fisherqueens/pseuds/fisherqueens
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>isaac is taken for a walk through the sprawl asylum to stretch his legs. (pre-dead space 2)</p>
            </blockquote>





	that means we're inconsolable

**Author's Note:**

> Tell me about the dream where we pull the bodies out of the lake  
> and dress them in warm clothes again. 
> 
> ( r. siken )

In. And out. In. And out. Like breath through the lungs. Isaac doesn't think anymore. He does. He only does. He sits in the chair and answers questions. He lays down and closes his eyes. He gets up and blacks out except on the long walk back down the pristine, white hall where they put him in the drawer again. The drawer is nice. It's cold and black and he goes to sleep for a long time there. The drawer is better than the Ishimura--the nightmares don't follow him there. They leave him alone in his own box. He can't move, however. Can barely breathe, but that's okay, he doesn't have to. That's how it works. They slow his body down, bring it to the barest, the bones of living function. In. And out.   
  
Like breath through the lungs.  
  
Like blood through every vessel. Every muscle. Every tissue.  
  
Like innumerable seconds. Isaac counts them because he doesn't know what else to do.  
  
One... Two... Three... Sympathetic--  
  
Alpha.  
  
Wave.  
  
Attention.  
  
Bismuth... zirconate... titanate...  
  
-  
  
Someone takes pity on him. Isaac wonders what possesses her when she opens the door and pulls him out like a body for an autopsy, barely warm. She injects him with something, something warming that makes him dizzy, but makes his heart kick. Kick. Kick. Kick.  
  
"Do you want to go for a walk?" she asks, but ultimately all Isaac hears is "Do", "want", and "walk" and he nods because he gets the gist of it.  
  
His brain is soup.  
  
It's a mass of stars and light and numbers and metal and gears. He shuts his eyes and feels her small hands (she's so small) guide him up to sit, urge him on to stand until he is wobbling just slightly and is more aware of himself than he has been in months. He shakes his head, tries to ward away the urge to lay back down. She laughs and it's too loud and he winces, growls. He doesn't mean it--she's just too. Damn. Loud. It's too much stimulation and at the same time, he craves it, swallows it down. This is better than the box (for now) and he hums quietly.  
  
"Sorry--" she says, as if she knows.  
  
Don't be sorry, he thinks, and her small arm is around his waist and he is so much bigger than her as she guides him slowly out of the room. Just for an hour, she says. No one has to know, she says. Just a quick walk, she says. And he agrees. Isaac used to like walking, but as they move down the hall, he slows. No. He doesn't like walking. Doesn't like this hall. He balks like a horse, stops and shakes his head and tears back, fumbles, nearly lands on his ass but backs up against a gurney instead, which just skids a bit with locked wheels. He breathes out hard. No. He knows. He kind of knows. It's a blur. They'll take him and make him sleep and oh... oh no. No, please no.   
  
"It's not that," she says. "None of that. I see how you cry," she says. "Like blood and stuff. Terrible."  
  
He doesn't recognize that. He just knows they make him sleep. There you go, Isaac. Down you go. A pat to the head like he's five years old. Like he's just a child. He just shakes his head. His right eye is blurred and he squints it. He's just a piece of scientific meat here.   
  
"Come on, just a little walk." She takes his hand (still so tiny) and pulls him up, teetering, but on his feet again. "There's a man, Mr. Clarke. Look at you... you're not so bad. A downright gent. Are you hungry?"  
  
Famished, really.  
  
"They don't have to know," she says. "You're not an animal. They just... take you out and put you back in. Like a thing. They do that to Stross too... poor Stross."   
  
_Not an animal._  He likes that. He has a name. He means to tell her thank you, to walk with her quietly, but all he does it feel his lips move in shapes. Shapes and letters and words and he's shaking by the time they've cleared the hall into a small lobby full of wheelchairs and on the wall are a few patient suits, quilted and soft like the one he wears. The arms aren't tied, however. They're never tied when he's asleep and she hasn't tied him like they normally do. No. His arms are free and he pulls from her and tests them. Loose. He's only slightly aware of himself.  
  
He laughs.  
  
She stops.  
  
"Come along, Mr. Clarke."  
  
Oh.   
  
Oh no.  
  
He smiles.   
  
"Come on, I'll get you something to eat--"  
  
No, no, no, no.  
  
He turns and screams.  
  
That's to  _you_. That's all to  _you_.  
  
She can't stop him now and she especially can't stop him from grabbing a scalpel and slicing into his hands, his arms, dragging them over the walls. Look. He can spell. He can write. Look at the letters. Look at the  _words_.   
  
The nightmare is over--  
  
"But it will not end..."  
  
Make. Us. Whole.  
  
-  
  
  
They drug him up and lay him to rest for four months.  
  
  
No good. Regressed.  
  
  
-  
  
Isaac never sees the girl again.  
  
-  
  
The next time they take him out, they say something about four months. They sit him up on the bench and lay him down. He's too sluggish, too cold, but that's the way they like him. He can tell because they aren't afraid. The man's hands are cold, going over his face. They open his mouth and check his teeth, count them, depress his tongue, lift it up. He removes his gloves and writes: 32 teeth, 4 fillings, no other decay, no oral sores. The doctor turns, looks into his eyes, particularly the right, and Isaac jerks. The hand on his chest keeps him steady, but he jerks. Don't touch it, he thinks. Don't touch--and the doctor doesn't touch, just shines the light into his eye.  
  
Sometimes he speaks.   
  
Help me.  
  
The doctor ignores him, mainly because the words aren't coming from his mouth but his eyes. Help me, please. No more.  
  
"He's dangerous. Watch it," someone says as they pass into the room. Isaac feels them, heavy in presence. He jerks his head to see. Just to see, but the motion is met with a bit of restraint and not long after the quick motion, muscles slacken, his head lolls to the side. "How is he?"  
  
"Fine. Ready to go."


End file.
